of his brandy had certainly never reflected it. What type of man purchased curtains of the fine Belgian lace and didn’t stock up his spirits? It made no sense. No matter how he arranged the pieces the solution eluded him.
Sighing with frustration Tristan shoved the papers together, placed them in a drawer and turned the key. Some problems would need to wait for another day.
It was time for dinner, yet another type of frustration, another torture.
Chapter Thirteen
Marguerite stared at the perfectly set table and shivered. The night might be warm, but her dress held off not the slightest breeze. Violet had advised her to wear the lowest cut bodice she owned and this was certainly it. How rude was it to pop out during dinner? And she was very much afraid that you could even see the shadow of her nipples. It was not definite, but sometimes as she turned in the candlelight she thought she saw the reflection of – she was not going to think about that. Violet had said to only think about the food.
She could even pretend that Tristan was not there if she wanted. That should not be too hard, once they talked about the weather and whether they were attending the Somerton’s ball the following night silence would descend. She would ignore the tingle that ran down her spine whenever she was in her husband’s presence.
The footman swung the door open and Tristan entered. Another footman pulled out her chair, and they sat.
“The sun was quite hot today,” Tristan began.
“Yes, I found myself quite fatigued by the heat.” Marguerite fanned herself lightly as if to demonstrate. The movement pulled the fabric of her bodice tight. Tristan’s gaze locked a good twelve inches below her eyes. Her nipples prickled against the thin silk of her gown. She shifted slightly, watching his eyes track. Maybe, Violet was correct. Heat and interest were both present in his gaze. She moved slightly in the other direction. Bent forward. She watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bob once. Her own pulse quickened in response.
Then he turned as the footman brought in the first course. He did not look back. Marguerite did not see how she might succeed if he did not even look at her for five minutes in a row. She was wearing a dress that wasn’t even decent to sleep in and her husband had no difficulty pulling his attention away.
Anger and fury began to rise within her. He had not even bothered to discuss the next day’s outings. He could not take even that away from her.
She glared at the fresh plate before her. Asparagus with lemon-vanilla sauce. It sounded odd, but Violet had been quite insistent. She would think of nothing, but the food. You could not be mad at asparagus. She cut off a tiny bite. Brought it to her lips. The smell was divine. She paused savoring the sweetness and tang. She opened her mouth slightly and let the first delicate taste overwhelm her. She licked the fork, her tongue searching between the tines for each drop of moisture.
She took another bite, thinking about nothing but the wondrous flavors and sensations. She let her eyes drift closed as she delighted in each nuance and subtlety. She took the next bit, the very tip of the stalk. Again she let her tongue dart out to lick and lave the sauce. It was too good, too delicious. She brought it to her mouth, her greedy lips eager to suck and sample the elusive essence of the sauce.
A choking sound from the end of the table drew her attention. Tristan’s eyes were fastened on her again, his face red. He shifted in his chair and again draped the napkin on his lap.
“Are you having difficulties? Is the sauce too flavorful? I find it delicious.” Marguerite licked a last drop from the corner of her mouth. Tristan choked again and took a large swallow of wine.
“No. I am fine,” he sputtered. “I simply swallowed wrong.”
“Mmmm.” Marguerite took her last bite of asparagus. Giving up her manners she dipped a finger in the sauce and brought it to her lips. Tristan could not tear his eyes away.
She paused, her finger just a hair away from her mouth. Maybe, Violet’s beliefs were correct. She opened her lips, let her tongue dart out and dab the very tip of her finger.
She peeked up at her husband. He was suffused with color and appeared to have stopped breathing. She hurriedly licked